


A Prince on His Knees

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Courtesans, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Noble Hunters, Poverty, Seduction, social climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26331364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Mardy has value, she knows it, even if the rest of Orzammar doesn't.But once she ensnares Duran Aeducan, everyone will know it.
Relationships: Male Aeducan/Mardy (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	A Prince on His Knees

The brand on her face meant she had no value, but Mardy knew that wasn’t quite true. They’d love her to think that, because if she did then all she’d be able to do was blink back tears from her pale lyrium-colored eyes and simper gratefully at their feet. 

But Mardy had what they wanted. She had what they needed. 

Her ma, stone take her, had six brats. Three girls, then two boys. The girls, of course, got thrown back to nursemaids in Dust Town, fed watered down nugs milk and gruel in the hope ma wouldn’t have another mouth to feed, but the boys… Oh, Mardy’s brothers were study young lads. Warrior caste, heirs to a proud and noble tradition. 

It all should have been hers. She’d seen her weak, milk-fat fed brothers. They were soft. They were fools. Someday, someone would take them for all they were worth. If the Ancestors were kind, Mardy would be there to laugh. Her sisters hadn’t thrived on starvation and adversity, their corpses abandoned in the deep roads when they drew their last breaths into fragile, tiny lungs.

Not Mardy. Mardy survived. And she would claw her way out of dust the same way her mother did. She would make herself even greater than her brothers. She, after all, had fertility just like ma had. 

That was all that mattered in Orzammar. As long as she claimed that, she had power dancing at her fingertips. 

“What about that one?” Teli swirled the thimble of fine, expensive liquor between her fingers, jerking her chin towards a bear of a man, hold enough to be their father twice over with broad callouses on his hands.

“Not even a warrior, merely a smith.” Mardy would not waste herself. She would wait. 

* * *

At first, she did not know who he was. Perhaps, that was for the best. 

The plush, elegant lounge where the noble hunters gathered between seduction and rutting to produce the next generation of pompous deshyrs was crowded. Mardy felt sweat pooling at her neck when she excused herself, unwilling to let her expensive cosmetics run to sit and look pretty playing diamondback. 

Especially with nobody worthwhile impress. 

The cellar, stacked from top to bottom with barrels of the choicest ale to quench the most discerning palates, was cooler. Mardy never drank more than a taste, it was not to be wasted on her. Not when she had not a copper her name. Not when everything from the threadbare silk she wore to the gold-painted loops in her hair were borrowed on Beraht’s goodwill. 

But the stone was cool under her fingers. Here, in the silence, she swore she could hear it sing her name. As if it mattered not that she was branded. As if it welcomed her to it’s embrace regardless.

Her reverie was broken by raised voices. 

“Stone take you, you nug-brained…” 

“I will not allow you to speak to me as if-” 

“As if you’ve got nothing between your ears but dust?” 

A third voice chuckled, hard and bitter. There was the sound of a fist thudding against flesh, then a solid heft and crash of a body on the stone. Mardy froze, curiousity edging around a pyramid of barrels. 

“This is trea-” 

“Someday. Not today. Today, I’m giving you what you richly deserve.” 

Then a sound of a fist hitting something hard as bone. 

The man speaking had his back to her, his dark hair falling in shining waves. He dressed as a proving warrior, in chain mail and leathers even though he carried no blade. A second form crouched over the splayed form of a third on the ground, poking him gingerly. 

“Ancestors. You’ll be on loose sand when he wakes up.” The crouching figure said to the standing one. 

“Assuming he remembers. Drunk arse probably won’t. Get him up.” The figure ordered. 

“I didn’t knock him straight into the-”

“You’re his second, aren’t you?” The first asked, mocking. The third man sighed, picking the fallen one up and dragging him to a hidden tunnel exposed by some moved crates. The remaining dwarf stood and watched them go, rubbing at his face and beard. 

She was so engrossed, she didn’t realize her pinched, too-small shoes squeaked while she leaned closer. But the sound echoed in cellar and the man turned, spearing the barrels with his pointed gaze. 

“Who’s there? Come out.” He demanded, taking a step towards her. 

No brand. No gold in his beard, either. But the chainmail was well-made. Clearly, from a good warrior clan. Mardy stepped forward from behind the barrels. 

“You’re not to be here.” She affected her own steely command. “Stealing the good ale, I take it?” 

“Stealing the…” He repeated, dumbfounded. Then his lips broke into an amused grin. “You’re a brave thing, aren’t you? Why haven’t I seen you here?” 

“I don’t give my attention to fools.” She had higher goals. She had value, no matter what they said. “Especially fools indulging in fist fights for no good reason.” 

He was smiling even more. “I am sorry to offend. Particularly someone so lovely.” 

He _was_ handsome. She’d give him that.

“Duran!” The third man shouted. “Bleeding… Trian just vomited on my soddin’ boots, the rat bastard.” 

_Duran. Trian._

Oh, _ancestors._ No wonder the lounge had been so crowded. Beraht would never allow anyone but his handpicked, those who paid or those whose families he owned, so close to the Aeducan princes. They must have been entertained upstairs, and she’d…

“DURAN!” The third bellowed, but he was still staring at her, taking in her branded cheek. The worn silk. The honey color of her thick, braided hair. Her cheap jewelry.

He bowed, far too deeply. “I’m sorry we’ve bothered you with our antics. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” 

* * *

He asked for her. 

Beraht nearly choked on it, but who was he to say no? When he claimed there were no ladies in the lounge of her description, Duran Aeducan himself came down to search for her. 

And he plucked her right up, took her up the carved stone steps, and whisked her to a corner away from the sharp eyes of the youngest Aeducan. 

He liked her bold. He liked her cunning. He enjoyed her mimicry of Beraht when he turned his back. 

He came more frequently. Her name always on his lips. 

And then she was in his bed, and her name as a prayer to their ancestors. Like the stone song itself. 

“I forget how to breathe when I’m around you.” He confessed, his face between her splayed thighs, a _prince_ on his knees before her. “I hate traveling to the lounge to see you. Let me bring you to the Diamond quarter.” 

She made a show of resisting. Claiming she wanted her independence until he coaxed both pleasure and a resounding yes from her throat.

She had value, and not just her fertility. She had the heart and ear of the diamond of Orzammar himself. 

She had everything she ever wished. She need only give him a son as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> FINE DWARVEN BULLSHIT DIRECT FROM KIRKWALL AT [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](http://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com)


End file.
